Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?
Man maketh a death which Nature never made.
Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.
Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.
Wishing of all employments is the worst